Ralph Lauren

Just a quick check-in while I nurse myself back into one solid time-zone and berate my body that it’s not okay to brush teeth, and 15 minutes later attack a mega-bag of pretzel M&M’s bought at JFK. If this is what it means to be a citizen of the world, I’m just grateful I didn’t pick up a bobblehead Obama as gift to the hubby. That thing’s not edible in any time zone. And I guess poor dude is getting a crinkled bag with 11 M&Ms as gift from NYC.

This outfit was shot in London during a short window between Seoul and New York. I had obsessively lugged around my Ralph Lauren Ricky bag around town containing contents of my carry-on from the Seoul trip – including in-flight socks and mini toothpaste – in fear that if at some point I did unpack, I will not have enough time/brain capacity to re-pack for the next trip, and that I would have to face a flight without, *gasp*, in-flight socks. Great thing about this bucket bag is all the hidden compartments, because my skin was bone-dry 3 hours into the flight and in an inner pocket I found, a fist-load of Avène moisturizer samples that I’d pawed at a phamacie in Paris a couple months back. I won’t elaborate however, on how long I dug at the other pockets in case of a half-eaten pain au chocolat.

With every passing season it seems more and more apparent that I approach Fashion Week dressing exactly like how I prepared for my GCSE’s: Revise the crap out of the first exam on schedule (history), and then sob through the rest, cramming two years’ worth of curriculum every night before exams while simultaneously replacing water with Red Bull in my circulatory system. Fast forward about ten years later – same drill, different liquids. If ya know what I mean.

London fashion weekDay One
Confident. Prepared. Even bothered to wrestle with the printer to have the day’s itinerary at hand. Memorized the show schedule to the tune of Family Guy opening song. Three look changes neatly folded in the trunk with one to spare, we’re shooting a video throughout the day and the Hyundai Santa Fe is my changing room on wheels again. Windows not tinted dark enough but it’s Day One and I’m pumped.

London fashion weekDay Two
Early start, breakfast in the car. Make-up completion level: 8/10. Pret plastic spoon in one hand, eyeliner in another, someone’s eating granola with an eyeliner again today… Balancing on 4-inch heels and feeling like I’m up to some good. Promises self to go home and blog everything I’ve seen today.

London fashion weekDay Three
Hummed tune to Family Guy over breakfast and only managed to sing ‘sex on TV’ bit correctly. No idea what’s happening today, fingers crossed assistant knows. Wearing trainers in case there’s some running involved. Ran to the loo in McDonald’s between Topshop and Paul Smith.

London fashion weekDay Four
Stuck a hand inside the khaki side of the wardrobe and pulled out outfit at the peak of desperation. Figured you can never go wrong with khaki, except maybe looking like a farmer a little. Coccinelle bag surprisingly roomy and fits camera et al. Scooore.

London fashion weekDay Five
Peeled out layers from the laundry basket, ended up looking (and smelling) like a college student. Not sure what fashion even is anymore. Tommy, can you smell me? Turns out wearing everyday clothes = higher productivity level. No actual work done, but somehow managed to deplete phone battery by noon. Added this skill into CV with remaining 1%.

If you happen follow me on my satellite rant-channels such as Twitter or Instagram you’ve been subject to the live stream moaning of all things related to the joy of moving homes. For this I apologise. If you don’t however, you 1) are making smart choices in life (or at least very refined taste in internet personalities) but also 2) missing out on a whole slew of embarrassing food choices that explain for mysterious stomach bulges that excite and disappoint my mother every other day around dinnertime. (“Kebab or baby?”)

For the past month I’ve been in nothing but jeans (these two G-Star RAW pairs, my current fav), occupying myself in packing, unpacking, and learning the art of leading a professional life in the most trashcan-like setting in the new house. But we have a marble fireplace so, we got that going for us, which is nice. So far we’ve managed to dig a path to and from the boxes containing beef jerky packets, and have sung a bit of Step in Time while vacuuming around the fireplace.

When it comes to moving uniform though, jeans all the way. Tight or wide, I just like knowing I can wipe my hands on my leg since I have no clue where we packed our towels. While I go look for some (it has now come to a point where a shower is definitely needed), you tell me whether you’re #TeamTight or Wide when it comes to jeans.

So… remember that giggle-and-titter trip to Disneyland from a few moons past with Jen, Fred & hubby? Believe it or not, there was quite a journey before we reached happily ever after in the land of dreams – no I’m not referring to the Eurostar ride. I’m talking about the shuffle into van and drive down towards the gleaming castle and towards a distant, yet still squeaky-clear, melody of ‘it’s a small world afterall’ and everyone hoots – even the boys – then driver takes sharp left and continues down 45 minutes through French countrysideand passengers sulk silently type of journey. Later we found out the Vienna International Hotels team had so gracefully planned an extensive itinerary, which involved of touching four corners of the Disney experience, where three don’t sell princess dresses. Disneyland was first corner, naturally; second was Paris – an hour van-ride from the Dream Castle Hotel, where we got tipsy and watched boobies jiggle on stage. La Vallée Village was third, the outlet shopping village (think Bicester Village) two minutes from the hotel where I was denied purchasing a certain pair of Céline sandals marked £190 by hubby who pulled the leash (mostly expressing disgruntle over unfulfilled one-in-one-out policy). Fourth and last was Château de Fontainebleu, home of many, MANY Kings, Queens, Emperors and Empresses’ over the past eight centuries. Let me first apologize for the amount of photos you’ve had to scroll through and here’s a Gatorade for your fingers. (Olympic spirit!) By the third chamber I gave up with the tourguide and lagged behind, it felt a crime to simply brush by the breathtaking details of each room – the brilliant colours, intricate patterns and rich textures… Heck, I know this sounds oddly grown-up and therefore incredibly unlike moi but I’d actually like to visit Disneyland again and dedicate one whole day checking out the 9/10th of the palace we missed. Dibs on the palace if I ever become King of France.

Mulberry envelope receipt holder for £35

This was such a gorgeous day, with one of those exotic weathers that London is yet to call back… I took a day off for a trip up to Bicester Village (designer outlet village just outside Oxford) with Kit, my usual honeymoon partner, with the invitation of lovely Laura of Chic Outlet. Rosy feelings aside, I must confess that while I was putting this post together I couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment in myself…

This blog has been steadily growing in my life to a point that it now amounts to a considerable portion of my polyjuice potion (me in a bottle) Truthfully, I don’t remember when was the last time I had a pep-talk with dear old self and looked back for self improvement. I can’t help but notice that this lack of reflective thinking and letting diembe Carpe‘d while I enjoy the scenery on autopilot have somehow led me to a rather unfamiliar territory. To this day I have never considered packing a bag and arranging travel to a destination with the sole purpose of shopping, possibly for the same reason there’s very little body revealing in this blog. I don’t mean to disdain – I too like shopping – but this time I feel like I’ve gone too far and tickled the Materialism beast. I know I had plenty fun that day, but on hindsight I don’t know what road this blog is taking me and to be honest I’m rather nervous.

To Bicester Village’s defence, the pricetags are digestible and the landscape is immaculate, and if your kidney needs a Dolce & Gabbana bejewelled boots then you know where to go. Alas, the beauty of this blog is that now it has a mind of its own and despite what I write here, if a visitor is inclined to skip the reading, then my reflection on virtue & yadda yadd will simply be dissolved into bytes, but ah, c’est la pee pee.